Another Day
by Guard of the Heradi
Summary: A sister collection of one-shots to Another Name, featuring OC Agent Emma Hume, exploring a little more of her character. Please read Another Name first before reading this collection. Entries will be added on a ad-hoc basis.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Firstly, disclaimer: the world of Mission Impossible belongs to... well, I don't know who owns the rights, but I don't know who they are, but I'm not ripping them off.**

**Secondly, if you're new to my work, please read _Another Name_ first. This collection won't really make sense unless you have. I apologise for this, but this is a follow-up to that story, and will contain spoilers to that story. All events contained in this collection occur at varying times during the 'canon' of _Another Name_, and heavily features Enma-O Meido, aka Agent Emma Hume, who I created in _Another Name_. It will also feature characters from the Mission Impossible film series, but as this is a work in progress I'm not yet sure who.**

**This collection is written at random, and so will take place at random times. The piece featured below starts more or less at the beginning, and whilst the next piece is in development, I'm not yet sure _when_ it takes place. I don't even know how many of these scenes there will be, but there is no plot linking them. I'm merely writing this for my own pleasure and enjoyment, as the story I created for _Another Name_ won't stop brewing in my mind.**

**So, I hope you enjoy it too.**

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**ANOTHER DAY**

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I - Phase 1

* * *

_Stroke. Kick. Breathe._

Six months ago, Agent William Brandt issued Emma Locke, formerly Enma-O Meido, her instructions to be followed to the letter. He had not stayed long at her aunt and uncle's house, and had shaken her hand before leaving, wishing her good luck. She didn't know it then, but he had meant entirely sincerely. She had watched him go, as though keeping him within her sights would make the whole thing feel real for just a while longer, and couldn't help but feel the buzz of flattery when he looked over his shoulder to stare at her one last time.

A week later Locke left her aunt and uncle as planned, having never breathed a word to them that anything had happened on their porch, and returned to her foster parent's home; her home. She told them that she'd made a decision about her future, and that she was joining a US secret intelligence agency. She told them she would not see them again for a long time once she left for training, and that they would not hear from her during that time, that they might not hear from her much at all after her training.

She told them how much she loved them, how glad she was that she had been too young to have any recollection of life before they adopted her, and that she hoped more than anything that they were proud of her, and proud of her decision, even if they couldn't understand it just yet.

Joanna Locke had trouble with it. She cried, because she knew that her daughter was signing up to wars fought in the shadows, wars potentially more dangerous than those fought in the light of day and scrutiny. Frederick Locke was shocked for a moment, and then realised that he wasn't all that surprised. Both he and his wife were civil servants, both working for different branches of government, and their daughter had been brought up knowing how proud her parents were to serve their country, to honour their duties. But unlike Mr and Mrs Locke, who helped write laws and see them implemented to change people's lives for the better, young Enma-O had grown up to believe in protecting people, _any_ people. As a young teenager, her favourite quote was '_it's not about changing the world. It's about doing our best to leave the world the way it is_'.

They had no idea that the quote came from a video game about a world of war.

Nevertheless, Emma's father hugged his daughter and told her that whatever she wanted to do, he would be proud of her. He merely hoped that doing this would make her proud of herself too. He asked when she would be going, and she told him honestly that she didn't know. Until then, she wanted to be with her family, but she warned him that the summons might be sudden, and at any time, and that they might not get to say goodbye.

Which is exactly what happened. Exactly as Brandt had told her, Locke received a message on her phone, a message that deleted itself after she'd read it. It was the middle of the night, but within five minutes Emma was up, dressed, and out of the window like a teenager sneaking off to escape being grounded. She took her passport with her, and left a note to her parents, telling them that she loved them again, and that she'd let them know she was okay one way or another, and to destroy the note the second they read it. She boarded a train heading towards Virginia, and disappeared without a trace.

What followed was the most nerve-wracking few months of her life, and she preferred not to remember them. Not so much because she'd been afraid, there would be plenty of times like that further ahead, but more because of how little she understood everything that happened in that time. For at least a couple of weeks she didn't see the outside world, and so had no awareness of where she was, and had only twenty-four hour clocks to tell her whether it was day and night, hoping the clocks were honest. In a room of nothing but walls she was asked to strip, shower, and dress in a medical jumpsuit, and a doctor took samples and measurements of everything about her body: saliva swabs, blood, urine, stool, hair, fingerprints, footprint, retinas, X-rays, MRIs, and had photographs taken of notable physical markings, like the tell-tale dots of old childhood vaccinations and a mole on her arm. She was taken to a gym and given physical fitness tests by an instructor who seemed unimpressed by her history of athletics. A psychiatrist measured her responses to various stimuli, recorded word associations for hours on end. Another examiner tested her IQ. Another interviewer grilled her for every detail of her life, particularly her MIT days, particularly the tutor who she'd always seen as a kept-at-arms-length mentor, and who she was fairly sure worked for the British Secret Intelligent Services once.

For longer that she had ever felt and would ever feel again, she'd had no secrets at all.

Then the real tests begain.

_Stroke. Kick. Breathe._

On a helicopter ride across a sandy desert in a corner of the world that she would never be able to identify, Locke met five other 'prospectives', as they were referred to. They were all men, and none of them seemed to know what they were really applying for. They assumed when she mentioned 'IMF' that it was a specialised unit in the CIA, or she was talking out of her ass. She didn't correct them either way.

None of them were allowed to know each other's names, and were instead given codenames. Locke was Echo.

Alpha was a multi-martial arts expert, and had been recruited by an agent who he'd beaten in a drunken bar fight. The agent, they were told, was sober. Alpha definitely hadn't been.

Bravo was bi-lingual, and was fluent in every European Latin-based language and German, including several Creole variants, as well as Russian, Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese, and spoke passable Thai, Korean, and Vietnamese, and before being recruited had been studying the linguistics of Hindi. Apparently English was his fourth fluent tongue.

Charlie had been given an ultimatum between this and serving back-to-back sentences for endless cases of identity fraud perpetuated in half a dozen different countries.

Delta was an engineer who disabled a live bomb left by protesters in his college's lab.

And the last, Foxtrot, was a hacker, like Locke, who had almost cracked IMF's secure network, unlike Locke, who _had_ cracked the network. For Foxtrot like Charlie, it was either take this ambiguous offer or serve jail time after a trial where no one would be able to give any evidence without blacking it all out from the official record.

A mixed bunch, all in all.

_Stroke. Kick. Breathe._

The desert was the first round. Until now, Locke thought of the first round as the worst round. The jungle where she'd been bitten in more places than she could actually find had been irritating but bearable. The tundra and its frosty, slippery surface had almost been almost fun in comparison to that, Locke finding it easier to warm up than to cool down. Navigating the transportation system of Tokyo without Google map or a translator had been mind-boggling but challenging in the best of ways. The desert however she would remember as the most faith-breaking days of her life.

They were told to walk, in any direction they chose, and just walk until they could walk no more. It was up to them to decide when 'no more' was. They all were given a GPS: if just one of them activated it, the test would end, and they'd all be picked up. After an hour, none of the group had the spare breath to chit-chat, even to get to know each other. When the sun went down it just got cold quickly; very cold and very quickly. The shock of the transition kept them quiet. It meant she had nothing but her thoughts for company, and in that heat and subsequent cold, her thoughts were traitorous, almost bipolar in their swing from optimistic to pessimistic, and more suffocating that the hot air.

They lasted three nights. Then Charlie twisted his ankle, and activated the GPS before anyone could stop him. It cost him his place in the group: after they were picked up and brought back to the base, none of them ever saw him again. He should have trusted, they were told, that his team would help him keep walking.

Foxtrot dropped out after the tundra, saying he couldn't bear any more tests, unaware that the next was the last one.

_Stroke. Kick. Breathe._

But the next one, the last one, where she was now... this was pain. Absolute pain. The only blessing was that she couldn't think. Just stroke, kick, and breathe.

_Stroke. Kick. Breathe._

She was wearing US Marines' combat gear, and the material was dragging through the water. She had no idea how long she had been swimming, she was just absolutely focussed on her only marker to stop: a blinking red light under the water. All she had to do, she'd been told, was swim as far up river until she got to the blinking red marker, dive down and turn it off, and get out of the water.

That last part, the bit where she would be able to get out of the water, Locke was keenly looking forward to that part. Because the river, though she didn't know exactly where it was, was very definitely in the Arctic circle.

She'd never felt so cold in her life.

_Stroke. Kick. Breathe..._

Red blinked in the water, and with a desperate pull of breath, Locke dived down, kicking hard at the surface. Her scalp burned with the sudden, total immersion, and her lungs constricted as the water seemed to thicken around her, threatening the worst claustrophobia she'd experienced in her life. But she focussed on her stroke, measuring it carefully to save on energy rather than flop and push at the water out of rhythm. Yet the light seemed to stay just as far from her as it had at the surface, winking cruelly. Then, wicked thing, it was right there, and she slammed her hand over the button she could see in the glare, righted herself at the bed of the river, and kicked up towards the surface.

The observers at the river bank would later think that the sight of her breaking the surface, gasping for air, would make them think of Ariel in the Little Mermaid, transformed against the pastel colours of Disnified dawn, hair wiping back, reaching up to the sky for salvation. To Emma Locke, such a romantic vision would ever occur to her. All would ever occur to her was just how much she wanted to be on the shore with the observers.

She practically clawed her way up the bank, not remotely aware that she was being half-carried up by the medical team, already wrapping her in foil to preserve her heat, preparing to strip her out of her wet clothes the moment they got her inside, out of the cold. Locke was aware of only one thing, and it made her smile the whole time.

There were three red lights still blinking down in the water. Three lights for three prospectives who hadn't got that far yet.

She'd finished first. Later, she'd learn that she wasn't the first; she was the only one to finish.

From this point on, there would be plenty of things Enma-O Meido, Emma Locke, Emma Hume, Emily Menneer, whichever name she took, would have no pride in. Being the only one to pass Phase I would always make her proud.

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**Please review! x**


	2. Chapter 2

**ANOTHER DAY**

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II: The Second Face

* * *

Zoe Corlani, a wealthy heiress of an internet businessman in case anyone asked, codenamed Puma, was waiting for her date to the St Petersburg opera. In a plain black ball gown, its only adornment a thick belt mid-waist, with simple pearls at her neck, heels out of sight under the long dress' skirt, almost no one noticed her. In her ordinary-looking glasses, nothing made her stand out of the crowd, so no one noticed that her eagle eyes never not noticed the movements of one Colonel Alexei Gransky.

Gransky was former KGB and current FSB, high-ranking amongst those who didn't really exist on paper. Puma had been watching him for two months, waiting to find out who he was selling FSB secrets to. Normally this wouldn't be IMF's concern, or rather not something they had the authority to act on - it wasn't their turf, so to speak - except the secrets being sold pertained to IMF as well. IMF didn't exist on paper either, but they still had business that they would prefer not to be known to certain individuals, individuals they wanted to have no business with, only to fight for justice over. So Puma was waiting for Gransky to make contact with whoever his buyer was, and then await for IMF's subsequent instructions.

There was a catch though.

Since the Kremlin was blown to ash a few years ago, all American operations on Russian soul had trickled to an absolute minimum out of sheer diplomatic necessity. This was one of the very few missions to be based in a major city in Russia, and so all electronic communication was kept to a highly strict minimum. The FSB was studying all date being transmitted through cyberspace from home sources, listening into all telephone conversations, particularly any that tried to secure themselves against eavesdroppers. So IMF had gone back to using old Cold War tactics, of hidden messages and codes and unsuspecting meetings in the open. The Russian government knew that they were there, partly because the Secretary had told them they had a vested interest in recovering the stolen secrets, but also from their own investigating, having flagged the agents' passports and tracking the dead ends they inevitably lead to. They were carrying out their own operation to discover the true depths of Gransky's treachery, but given his occupation as an internal affairs officer, they were having to tread exceptionally carefully.

This was the first time Puma had been seen out in the open so close to the Colonel. For the last couple of months she'd been hiding in the shadows, amongst crowds, keeping her reputation as a ninja.

So when she held her composure as her 'date' appeared before her, Agent Brandt couldn't help but feel proud of Agent Hume; save for her fleetingly frozen eyes, she showed no other sign of complete surprise.

They greeted each other formally, melted into the crowd of miscellaneous faces, and followed a few steps behind Gransky and his wife, talking quietly in Russian about the opera they were about to see. Her accent was perfect, inpenetratable. To his amusement, the moment they were in their own private box, Hume dropped the Russian immediately.

"Thank Christ we're so close, I was running out of bull to spin about..." she checked the opera's pamphlet. "I'm not actually sure how to pronounce that, let alone how to pronounce that in a Russian accent."

Still in full view of the audience in the concert hall however, they still had parts to play. Keeping Gransky in sight, she let Brandt lead her to her seat, and spoke in whispers again.

"I didn't know you were in St Petersburg," she said softly.

"I'm not, so to speak," Brandt whispered back, watching the crowd below them slowly herd in and the neighbouring boxes. "I wanted to get eyeball on our mark, see what we're up against."

"I'm not so sure you'd like what you find," Hume told him quietly. "In two months he'd met up with four different mistresses, only one of which his wife is aware of, bought a party's worth of coke from a dealer down the smelliest alley I've ever had the displeasure of standing above, and beaten up one of his colleagues and two more men in a bar over a drink that spilt over a line." Her eyes quickly flickered over Mrs Gransky and her tight, unhappy, masked face. "None of the people he's come into contact with, in my opinion, are likely to be the buyer. All that's passed out of his hands is cash taken out of the FSB's evidence room, and I haven't spotted anything more covert yet." She glanced across to Brandt. "In fact, this is the oddest thing he's done this whole time; he never takes his wife to the opera, he can't stand it, and he's not that kind of husband."

Brandt frowned, noting her warning tone. He blinked three times in quick succession, activating the camera lens in his left eye. He hated having it on, but immediately it started recording faces from the crowd as Brandt scanned over every person in the room as the doors closed to start the performance. Later he'd upload the images saved, and send them from his operations base. For now however, he enjoyed the dramatic opera playing below, and savoured the feel of Emma's fingers laced with his.

He hadn't seen her since Mauritius. He'd missed her.

He didn't have long in her company. Activating the night-vision in her glasses, Hume watched Gransky leave his seat and slowly make his way towards the lavatories, a few doors down from their booth. She placed a hand on Brandt's shoulder, keeping him in his seat, and headed to cross paths with Gransky. She just managed to catch sight of him going into the men's, and ducked into the women's. She quickly checked that the room was unoccupied, and strode over to the cubicle on the far left, next to wall between the two lavatories. She quietly pulled out a loose tile behind the toilet and fished out a small bag from under it. She unzipped it, and dusted off the iPad inside, plugged in a set of earphones, connected another device, and stuck the device to the wall.

"-re you weren't followed?"

The voice speaking through the earphones might as well have been in the women's bathroom, it was so clear. On the iPad, a figure leaned against the cubicle wall facing the familiar outline of Gransky, who remained near the door. They were just shadowy black and white ghosts on the screen, but Gransky's silhouette was unmistakeable. The other man however...

"No. The FSB are monitoring all data connections in the city however, the Americans are here, they think it's Sidorov," Gransky informed the unidentified man. The man nodded, shifted slightly.

"Unlikely. Sidorov is more loyal than a dog. But no matter." He stepped forward, and held out a slip of paper. "You'll find the funds in that bank account..." As Gransky reached out, the man snapped the paper away. "... after you give me what I'm paying you for."

Gransky cleared his throat irritably. "If anyone ever finds out..."

The two men stood in silence. Then, as quick as a crocodile, the man slapped Gransky in a vicious backhand. He grabbed Gransky's lapels and hissed right in his face. "The FSB would be the least of your worries," the man told him menacingly.

He sounded familiar...

Gransky finally spilled. "The CIA operate a substation in Moscow -"

"You've told me this," the man reminded, his temper not dissipating with the appeasement.

"- But they're not the only ones who have a base there," Gransky spluttered.

Neither moved, nor spoke. Then... "Go on."

Gransky visibly swallowed nervously. "There's another agency, an American one, it's called -"

There was a knock on the door of the men's, but Hume barely watched as she fished another object out of her kit, dropping the heels out of her collapsable shoes. She had all she needed. "Boss, there's a spook in one of the booths."

The man abruptly let go of Gransky and yanked the door open, admitting a bodyguard. "Who?"

The bodyguard held up a smartphone, undoubtedly showing an image on its screen to the man. "He was meant to have been killed when Sidorov shot an American diplomat's car into the river for the Kremlin."

Hume froze for a second, and carried on screwing the pieces of her Glock together, albeit faster, attaching the silencer last.

The man took one look at the image on the phone. "Kill him."

Hume was out of the cubicle fast, snapping in the clip as she moved, got to the door, listened carefully as the bodyguards gathered just outside. She heard one go past the door, headed towards the entrance to her and Brandt's booth, gripped the Glock tighter, waited. Then she heard exactly what she wanted to hear; silenced gunshots, a Russian accent yelping in deathly pain, and the guards right outside her door swearing loudly, moving forward.

The next moment was a blur. She wrenched the belt of her dress open, burst the door open, heard it collide with someone's nose behind it, and swept out her detached skirt like a matador's red flag, whacking another bodyguard in the face with the black material, blinding him as Brandt shot him for her in the distraction as she shot the others. The moment ended, and there was five heavy bodies on the floor.

And she stared in horror at Tom Hobbes, standing next to a horrified Gransky.

She would never know how long she stared at him, but she was frozen, absolutely rooted to the spot. So was he. Even though he'd never seen her face before, by sheer instinct, it was obvious that he knew who she was as well: the woman responsible for the constant tail, years of failed deals, years of being hunted like a rat through the sewer by worst scavengers.

It was Brandt who got her out of the freeze. "Puma."

Instantly her eyes narrowed and she aimed her Glock. "Freeze!"

But that only served to wake Hobbes from his shock. "Run!"

Gransky pulled a gun from his jacket, about to fire, and Brandt shot him, but he spun with the force of the bullet, blocking Hume's aim as Hobbes sprinted down the hallway to the emergency exits. Cursing, she ran straight past Gransky's writhing body on the floor and after Hobbes, deafened by her determination to make sure he didn't get away. She didn't really hear Brandt call after her, or activate and speak into his comm to seek assistance with Gransky. She didn't really see the members of the building's security who tried to stop her from chasing Hobbes. She did hear the screech of wheels on tarmac and watched as he ducked into a car and swerved out into traffic to escape her.

She didn't care about whose car she stole in order to chase him. Or about the cars that blared at her as she cut across them at break-neck speed. Or, after she'd caught up with them as the car tried to lose her in the maze of St Petersburg's docklands, about the driver who she shot dead after he tried to shoot her.

She pulled her acquired car to a halt just in time to watch as Hobbes' car swerved out of control on the icy tarmac, and slid into the sea, complete with its occupants. She got out, walked almost calmly to the edge to just look at the car bobbing at the surface, about to become water-logged and head down to the shallow bottom. But deep enough to drown anyone stuck in the backseat.

She shivered as she noted the chill of the Russian night on her almost bare legs, the skirt of her ball gown still twisted around a bodyguard's head back at the opera, revealing the tight shorts underneath, and on her bare shoulders. Or maybe the shiver was just a strange discomfort in what she'd just done. She'd just mercilessly hunted down Tom Hobbes, who years ago she'd been given strict orders to spook the wits out of, but leave alive by her superiors. Using the recordings of her iPad in the opera's bathroom, she could easily prove that the man either already dead or now drowning was the buyer she'd been sent to find. She potentially could let him drown...

Then maybe her memories of being so deathly afraid would fade away.

_"GET HER! KILL HER!"_

Bangkok still haunted her, when she couldn't battle the ghosts back. She'd been a young agent, true, but... She'd felt less afraid doing the halo jump over the Milford Sound, and seeing the timer for a house bomb. She'd even felt less afraid seeing a rocket propeller grenade flying towards her. Every time she'd thought, _if you don't do this, you're going to die_. If you don't pull your chute in time, you're going to be a pancake. If you don't get out of this house, you're going to blow up. If you don't grab Benji and jump, you'll be blasted to smithereens. Being chased by Hobbes' men, she'd genuinely thought she was going to die. There was no 'if you do this, you'll survive'. All through that long day, she had blissful moments of stunned relief when she thought she'd escaped, barely able to believe it, and then realising it wasn't over yet when she was discovered again. Hobbes had been relentless, and didn't let his men give up. Even when she'd finally left them behind, she knew the bullet in her shoulder was killing her slowly as her blood drained away. She'd never expected to wake up, and when she did, she thought she was in purgatory. Until she remembered that she didn't believe in purgatory.

This man, somewhere in the murky depths of the water, was responsible for making her feel so vulnerable. If there was a hell after all, she had no qualms with sending him there. _  
_

Except her instructions were to identify so that the IMF could assist the FSB in detaining the buyer. Now he'd never go to trial for the long, long list of his crimes across the globe. Now he wouldn't be able to rot in a jail cell in the worst hole justice could find for him.

Cursing, she stretched her arms out, took a deep breath, less for oxygen and more for will, and dived into the sea.

She'd endured worse waters. But looking back, she'd rather swim up that frozen river again than dive in these waters.

By the time she'd swum to the car it was already submerged and heading towards the bottom. She dived, yanked at the door, bracing with her legs against the car frame whilst pulling at the handle. Finally it gave way, and she fumbled in the gloomy dark. The moment she felt something, she grabbed it and yanked it toward her, pulling it out of the car. It was Hobbes' arm, and in the gloominess she saw his face. His false, altered, vacant face. And then she saw him no more, and pulled him towards the surface.

Where a reaching arm helped her out of the sea.

* * *

"_Emma!_"

Brandt watched, horrified, as Hume's face transformed, and she sprinted down the corridor after Tom Hobbes. He'd never seen her face turn like that. Blank, save for one force: ice cold vengeance. "Shit..."

He looked down at Gransky, writhing in agony on the floor, swore again, and reached for the comm in his jacket and switched it on. "Mayday comm override, code Alpha One One Three, this is Tiger, subject is down, need immediate assistance..."

He trailed off as he heard voices, saw shadows behind him gather, and abandoned Gransky, sprinting after Hume. Just as he turned the corner at the end of the hallway, he spotted Russian Special Ops arrest Gransky on the floor, and cursed silently. IMF would have to come back for the Russian traitor, once the KGB were done with him. Until then, he had a shark to catch.

He exited the opera just in time to see Hume wrench a driver out of his car, a Mercedes waiting for one of the attendees, and burn tarmac as she drove after Hobbes. Brandt sprinted after her, did the same to the driver parked after her, and sped off after her.

He didn't even think why he was chasing after her. Instinct told him that, one way or another, she was going to need his help.

Speeding behind them, Brandt could see Hobbes' driver's erratically crashing into cars on the road, shoving them out of his way, as Hume weaved through the chaos to keep up. The collisions were slowing Hobbes down though, and suddenly Hume streaked her car up alongside, and Hobbes started firing at her car. Brandt swore as he saw glass shatter in her car, saw the silhouette of her own Glock take aim and fire back. But then Hobbes' car slammed into the side of hers, and again, and then both cars were spinning on the road, out of control.

Behind them, Brandt got a glimpse of the looks on their faces. Of the blinding panic on Hobbes' driver's face as he struggled to get control of his car again, as he struggled to get away. Of the fury on Hobbes' face as, even as his car carried on sliding over the tarmac, he tried to aim at Hume through the blown-out window. And of the ruthlessness and mercilessness on Hume's face.

_Oh God_... Brandt's face drained. She was going to kill him.

His car was too far behind to get to them by the time they'd got their cars back in gear, Hume still chasing, as Hobbes turned into the docklands. Maybe the driver panicked and took a wrong turning, or thought he could lose her there. Or maybe he knew there was back-up there. If it was the latter, Hume didn't appear to slow down for it, and sped right after him, reloading her Glock against the steering wheel.

Brandt cursed, and drove after her anyway. She needed him, even if right now, she had no idea he was there.

Then suddenly the dockland edge approached, and the driver swerved to turn before it, but Hume was right on his tail, yanked on her steering wheel, swinging the back of her back into his with enough force to push the car out of control and into the water, screeching to a halt at the edge.

Brandt braked hard on his own car, darted out, and peered around him, his gun at the ready. Was this a trap...? Spotting nothing, he darted forward, and saw Hume stretched her arms out and dived into the water.

Amazed for a second, Brandt recovered, ran to the edge, peered in quickly, and turned, checking all was clear. Still nothing.

"Mayday comm override two, code Papa-India-Xray-Alpha-Romeo, Tiger to all units, need immediate evac from current location, execute Omega-Omega-Tango, maintain radio silence. Griffin, what's your ETA for ground? Out."

There was a second of silence, no doubt as several shocked agents acknowledged Brandt's message and moved to carry out their operation. Griffin, the helicopter that should have been masquerading as traffic control, responded quickly. "ETA ninety, get ready for immediate extraction, out."

Brandt heard Hume breach the surface of the water behind him, gasping for breath, just as Griffin returned to silence. He shoved his gun into its holster, and braced himself against the edge to reach down to grab her hand. She stared at him for a split second, and then reached up, grimacing as he pulled both her and Hobbes' weight up out of the water. As soon as she had a grip on the dockland edge, Brandt let go of her and pulled Hobbes out of her grip, dragging him over the concrete as she hauled herself up.

As Hume got her breath back, shivering as the St Petersburg air spiked her wet skin, Brandt checked Hobbes' limp body, searched for pulse, frowned as something beat back at his fingertips, and slammed a fist on his chest. Hobbes immediately spluttered all the water out of his system, weakly turning on to his side to better cough and breathe. When finally he'd noticed his surroundings, he looked up to see two agents pointing their guns at him as a helicopter lowered, slicing at air noisily.

Hobbes would not remember a great deal of what happened as he was arrested. He wouldn't remember being handcuffed, stuffed into the helicopter, shoved into a enforced container, and being flown out of Russian airspace to a base in Germany. He would remember the woman though, and what she repeated as she stood over him, her hair dripping on to his face.

"No matter what you do, or where you go, we will find you."

And then she hit him out cold.

Brandt didn't move to stop her. He just moved forward to grab the prone Hobbes' shoulders as she grabbed his legs, heaved the unconscious man into the helicopter and gently pushed her in as he jumped in too, and slammed the door shut after them. Immediately he started searching Hobbes for anything concealed on him, emptying swiss knives out of hidden pockets and a spare clip for his gun in his shoe. Satisfied, Brandt handcuffed him, pulled him into the container - the 'Coffin', as he liked to call it - locked it, and turned to Hume.

And finally stopped.

She was gripping the edge of the seat, her knuckles white as the skin pushed against her bones. Yet despite her grip, her entire body shook, but not just because of the cold.

As Will took Emma into his arms, she finally burst into desperate sobs, sobs of feelings she could barely begin to name. Maybe it was relief that finally this man who had terrified her so much once was now no longer at large, able to petrify her again. Maybe it was bitter disappointment that she hadn't killed him after all.

"Is she alright?" Griffin - the pilot - shouted back to Brandt.

Even as Emma choked on her tears, as Will held her head to the crook of his neck with his fingers in her wet hair, his other arm tight around her waist, he looked forward. "She is now."


End file.
